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Proposed Future Interventions
In the immediate future, Catherine should be put on suicide watch and monitored closely. Admission to a psychiatric bed is advised, where she should be assessed for counseling, cognitive therapy, and appropriate drug treatments.
Given that a social worker is not currently involved, I will also be referring the case to social services.
Dictated, not checked or signed, to avoid delay.
Dr. Rebecca Forrest
Consultant Clinical Psychologist
CHAPTER
41
BY THE TIME Adam gets home, it’s past eleven. The house is silent; he hopes that Jamie is in bed. Jamie must be distraught, but he needs sleep. And, if the truth be known, Adam hasn’t got the energy to face him.
There is still no news. No good leads. And how does he tell his best mate that? He’s experienced it in the past. With relatives and friends of victims. Then, he could walk away. He had space. Here, he has none.
And as he walks into his living room, Jamie’s there. Sitting on his sofa, glass in hand. Jamie lifts his head, directs his rolling eyes toward him. He lifts the glass in a mock toast.
“The great detective. He’s home,” he slurs.
“Hi, Jamie,” Adam says. He sits down on the edge of the seat across from him.
“No suspects in custody?” Jamie asks. He tries to take a sip from his glass, but it’s empty, and he stares at it, annoyed, then holds it out to Adam. “Get me another, will you?”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“Don’t you think you should have caught this guy by now?” Jamie shouts. The change is sudden, an outpouring of fury, channeled in Adam’s direction. “Before he killed Pippa?”
Adam clenches his teeth. A million responses fire in his head, but there’s no point in saying them. Jamie won’t listen to reason. He’s angry, and Adam is a convenient conduit for that rage.
“Not got anything to say, DCI Bishop?” Jamie continues. “No well-meaning soundbite? No platitude or words of sympathy? Can’t be helping your career much, this one, can it?”
“Jamie, we’re doing our best,” Adam says softly.
“Well, it’s not good enough. It wasn’t good enough.” Jamie stands up, knocking the glass to the carpet, where it rolls onto its side. He faces Adam, his hands bunched into fists. Jamie has an edge on height over Adam by a long way, and he definitely has the weight. But his balance is completely off, skewed by the alcohol. Adam doesn’t want to get in a fight with him. Not now. Not ever.
Adam turns quickly and strides out of the living room. He hears Jamie following, bumping against walls and doorframes in his drunkenness.
“What? The great Adam Bishop isn’t up for a fight? Not man enough?”
Adam grabs his coat from the hook, opens the front door and walks out into the cold. Jamie doesn’t follow him. He stands in the doorway, shouting out into the street.
“Where are you going, Adam?” he hollers. “By yourself? Who can you turn to? When everyone who loves you has gone?”
* * *
Adam walks fast as Jamie’s words fade into the darkness. He knows Jamie’s hurting, in pain, and is taking that out on Adam, but he’s right. He’s damn well right. Where is he going? His legs carry him without thought. To the only place where he can be surrounded by people but be alone.
Being anonymous works well for Adam here. He stands in the shadows of the bar, bottle of beer in his hand. The first shot of vodka didn’t make any impact, and the two after have barely hit the sides. He hears Jamie’s words in his head. Who does he have? Who is he looking for here? A friend? A future wife? Someone to silence the nagging in his head, the self-loathing?
A woman comes wobbling toward him. She looks out of place, in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, and as she comes closer, he recognizes her.
She waves awkwardly, and he frowns.
“Ellie? What are you doing here?”
